


Different

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Psycho-Pass, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Depressing, Heavy Angst, M/M, Murder, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Simon is just getting his Dominator up when the Inspector’s golden eyes go soft and sad with regret." Simon makes a startling discovery and is slow to react.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different

Maybe it would have been easier if Simon had suspected. If he had had even a flicker of hesitation at any point, maybe it would have turned out differently. At least he would have reacted faster initially when he came into the room, and maybe that would have made the difference, if he had turned and run instead of standing in the doorway shocked into stillness.

But he doesn’t have even a sliver of doubt in his mind, and that  _is_  how it turns out. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, he supposes distantly -- how else was he to react to coming into the basement and finding Inspector Fulbright with a knife to a girl’s neck but with cold disbelief at the evidence of his eyes?

Fulbright turned at the sound of the door, twisting to see who had entered, and Simon is just getting his Dominator up when the Inspector’s golden eyes go soft and sad with regret.

“Ah, Simon.” Through the blue-filtered view the Dominator offers, the spray of blood from the girl’s throat is less vivid, as if Simon is watching Fulbright calmly murder another person at a great distance. The blood may be surreal, lost as a splash of motion and darkness to the filter, but the Coefficient displayed -- 35 -- is perfectly, impossibly clear. “I wish it hadn’t been you.”

Simon is still holding the useless gun as it locks into off mode, staring into that impossible image for long seconds while he tries to reconcile the viewscreen with reality. By the time he looks up Fulbright has wiped the knife carefully clean on his pristine coat, leaving a smear of deep red color over the fabric, has considered the stains soaking into his white gloves, shaken his head, and looked back up at the Enforcer.

“Truly,” he says, and starts to come forward. Simon’s gaze drags up from the smear of red on white, the familiar motion of the other man’s shoulders under his coat, the faint smile at his mouth, to meet eyes he’s never seen before set against the features of his supervisor, his coworker, his  _lover_. “I wish it was someone else. I would regret less.”

Simon’s fingers let the Dominator go. Fulbright kicks it aside as he comes in closer, and some wild part of Simon’s mind demands that he should have held onto the weapon, useless or not. But the other part, the shocked part, is cutting the control of his arms, leaving them to drop limp at his sides while he stares at the detective’s eyes, looking for some trace of the man he thought he knew in the metallic wall of color.

He’s still staring when the Inspector’s hands come up. For a moment it feels like a caress, in spite of the sticky liquid damp on the fingers of the other’s gloves; the detective’s thumb slides gently over Simon’s throat, his fingers curl steadying against the back of the Enforcer’s neck, and there is a flicker of something in his eyes, a blink out of time or a tiny tip of his head as if in apology.

“I wish it wasn’t you,” Fulbright says again, and then his fingers clench tight, cut off Simon’s breathing and any protest he might have at one and the same moment. It doesn’t even hurt, for a minute, other than the uncomfortable pressure against his throat -- then Simon’s lungs demand air, he tries to take an inhale, and when the air won’t come and Fulbright keeps looking at him with that awful almost-apology in his eyes Simon starts to believe.

There’s nothing he can do. The other man is bigger, and holding him at arm’s length, and Simon can’t get enough purchase on the ground to get his feet up for kicking and he can’t reach the detective other than to instinctively close his hands around the other man’s wrists and try to overpower him. Simon is strong but Fulbright is stronger, has always been stronger, and that never seemed like a threat until just now, with his vision going hazy from lack of oxygen and Fulbright’s unchanging expression fixed on his face.

“I do love you,” the detective’s words come, faint and at a distance, unimportant to the Enforcer’s brain as his body begins to focus on the immediate need for oxygen. “It was a mistake to do so but I suppose I’m paying for it now.” His voice is low, rich and resonant as Simon has never heard it before. The Enforcer’s hold on the other man’s wrists goes loose, his arms drop boneless to his sides; there is a pause, motion but no release of the pressure blacking out Simon’s vision. “It’ll be over soon.”

Simon doesn’t know what does it. There’s no thought, certainly; his vision is hazy, blurred and shadowed and vague out over the top of Fulbright’s head. And his hands are numb, he can’t feel his fingers and it’s not important, nothing can possibly be very important anymore. But he’s close, now, closer to the Inspector’s body, and when the detective leans in to brush his lips against Simon’s cheek and Fulbright’s vision is blocked by the other man’s face, Simon’s numb fingers close on the handle of the knife the Inspector stuck into his pocket.

The Inspector reacts quickly, at least. He’s pulling back as soon as he feels the motion, which means that when Simon’s arm swings up the knife catches at the curve of Fulbright’s shoulder and neck rather than straight across his throat. But Simon is swinging with all the force he can muster, all the strength in his arms, and the blade digs in deep by an inch before the fingers at his throat let him go to drop to the ground and his hold on the blade slides free.

He gasps for breath, so hard it catches in his throat and he has to choke and sputter through the inhale. His legs won’t hold him, his knees are on the floor and he’s collapsed sideways, he can feel the cold of the ground through the fabric of his shirt. He takes one breath, two, and is just starting to push himself upright when Fulbright is there in front of him, hands and jacket and skin all crimson now.

“I’m impressed.” He smiles, the expression strangely weak and shaky. “You’ve been training without me.”

“You were busy,” Simon says, the words dragging hoarse in his aching throat. “I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

“Well.” Fulbright’s smile flickers wider, vanishes entirely. “You got your revenge, after all. I was sure that wasn’t the way this was going to end.” His knees hit the floor next to Simon’s, the detective angles in and closes a hand on the Enforcer’s shoulder to hold himself up. “You did always surprise me.” His smile is genuine again, and this close Simon can see the way his eyes flash into softness, the warm comfort the Enforcer knows intimately.

He’s still staring into those eyes when the knife slides past his ribs and into his chest. It’s almost not painful for a moment; the edge is very sharp, the shock enough that he doesn’t feel it as more than pressure for a breath. But then Fulbright pulls it free, and  _that_  does hurt, leaves Simon choking on a wail as the detective throws the knife aside so it can clatter into the corner.

“You’ve killed me,” he says. He brings his hand to his mouth, pulls a bloodstained glove off with his teeth, and when he reaches back in for Simon’s throat it  _is_ a caress, this time, the warm slide of a thumb over the Enforcer’s pulse point while Simon stares blankly into the face he knows too well to doubt. “And now I’ve killed you.”

“What?” Simon asks.

“Your aim was perfect,” Fulbright says, and Simon’s eyes drift to the Inspector’s throat, where there’s a steady rush of blood in time with what must be his heartbeat. “You caught the artery, actually.” The Inspector’s other hand comes down, presses in against the tear in Simon’s shirt, and when the Enforcer tries to inhale it stutters and catches. “But my aim was perfect, too.”

He goes over gracefully, as if he’s lying down to curl himself in against Simon the way he does when the leading edge of sleep is coming for them both. The blood soaking his clothes doesn’t touch his face; it’s still familiar, still the same features Simon has known for years, and his eyes are still liquid and warm like they always have been before.

“It doesn’t matter,” Fulbright is saying. Simon’s brain is still stammering around the truth -- Fulbright is the spy, Fulbright is a criminal,  _Fulbright_  is who he’s been looking for -- but that voice is soothing, comforting even in the way it catches like it’s tripping over emotion. “It doesn’t matter now, Simon, just stay with me.” An arm falls over Simon’s shoulder, pulls him in closer to the detective’s coat, and the liquid ought to be cold but the Inspector is warm straight through his clothing, warm and radiant as if he’s the sun Simon always looked for.

“Don’t cry,” Fulbright’s voice murmurs, and Simon blinks and realizes that he is, his eyes are spilling tears though he doesn’t remember starting to cry. Fulbright’s fingers are against his neck, stroking up under the heavy weight of the Enforcer’s hair, and when Simon lifts an arm up to drop over the other man the detective sighs as if he’s been kissed. Lips brush over Simon’s forehead, a faint voice says, “Don’t -- don’t cry, Simon,” and Simon shuts his eyes and chokes on air as if he can’t stop sobbing.

There’s no one to notice when Simon’s tears and breathing both fade out, no one to notice when the Inspector’s skin gives up the last of its heat along with the last of Fulbright’s blood.


End file.
